10. Lorenzo #2
I want to be the person she calls when she gets there. Tonight, I’m the reason she had to go.
***
Chiara
The road stretches ahead in my headlights, and I’m still gripping the wheel too tightly.
I saw him. Near the boundary wall, where the drive runs parallel to the old vineyard, I caught movement in my side mirror. A horse and rider coming down the slope, the silhouette unmistakable even in the fading light. Lorenzo, cutting across the fields to reach me before I made it to the gate.
For a moment my foot eased off the gas. The car slowed, and I watched him in the mirror, watched him push the horse along the stone wall while the drive curved away from him.
He was trying to reach me. In the study he had stood still and watched me walk out; out here he was riding hard enough to make me lift my foot.
What would he say if I stopped?
I wanted him to have found an answer. I was close enough to stop and find out, and for a moment I watched the verge for somewhere to pull over.
Then I remembered his face in the study. The way he set my evidence aside. The careful, measured voice saying he couldn’t condemn an innocent woman on circumstantial evidence, as if Livia’s innocence were fact and my word were speculation.
I pressed the gas pedal down and kept going.
At the gate, I caught a last glimpse of him in the mirror. He had fallen behind as the road straightened. I made the turn onto the public road and kept going. I blinked hard against the sting in my eyes and focused on the pavement ahead.
He chose to chase me. He still didn’t choose to believe me.
The distinction matters. I hold onto it as the estate disappears behind me and the public road opens up, carrying me away from everything I thought I was building.
On the public road, I loosen my grip on the wheel and concentrate on the lane ahead. I can feel tears gathering again, and I begin watching for a place to pull in.
The headlights pick out the signs as I follow the route I sent Rosalia. I check each junction carefully. Getting lost is something I can avoid tonight.
A service-area sign appears before the next bend.
I follow it off the road and find a parking spot away from the main building, killing the engine with fingers that won’t quite cooperate.
The silence is sudden and complete, broken only by my own ragged breathing.
I sit there for a long moment, letting the shaking run through me, waiting for it to pass.
The first rush of tears leaves me tired enough to put the keys in my bag. I won’t start the car again until I feel able to drive.
I pull out my phone and text Rosalia. Taking a break. I’m all right. Just need a little time before I drive again.
Her reply comes within minutes. Take your time, signora. Please don’t drive until you feel ready.
I let Lucia know my arrival will be later than I expected. She tells me the cottage will be ready. Then I get out of the car and walk toward the service building, my legs unsteady after the drive.
Inside, I find the restroom and splash cold water on my face. The woman in the mirror looks like someone I barely recognize: pale, drawn, with shadows under her eyes from too many nights of fragmented sleep. I dry my face with a paper towel, then reach for another when the tears start again.
I buy a sandwich from the small shop and eat it in the car, forcing myself to chew and swallow even though my stomach has no interest in food. The mechanical act of eating gives me something to do with my hands, something to focus on besides the empty seat beside me.
A message arrives from Rosalia while I’m finishing the sandwich. Don Lorenzo asked where you were going. I haven’t given him the address. I hope you’re feeling a little better.
I read her words and feel a rush of gratitude for her loyalty. She could have told him where I booked the cottage, could have given him the route I sent her. Instead she kept my confidence and gave me space.
Thank you, I type back. I’ll call when I’m there.
I stay long after I finish eating, reclining the seat and resting until the tightness in my chest eases. Cars come and go around me. When I finally sit up, the car park is quieter and I can hold the keys without trembling. I message Rosalia that I’m setting off again before returning to the road.
The rest of the journey passes without my watching every pair of headlights behind me. I follow the signs toward Palermo, then take the smaller road in Lucia’s directions. It is late enough that the passing houses are mostly dark.
At the final turnoff, I pull into a lay-by and tell her I’m close. She replies that she will open the gate. I put the phone away before setting off again.
Rows of citrus trees appear beyond the headlights as I follow the short drive. There is a farmhouse at the far end and two cottages facing a gravel courtyard. One has a light beside the door. Lucia waits beneath it with a key in her hand.
I turn off the engine. My hands are steady now. My eyes are dry. Whatever comes next, I can face it.
“Chiara?” She waits until I have opened the car door. “I’m Lucia. Come and see where everything is before you bring your bags.”
Inside, the cottage smells faintly of floor polish and the bread she has left on the kitchen counter. There is a small sitting room, a table beside the window, and a covered terrace through the back door. Beyond it, the land slopes toward citrus trees and a narrow parcel of vines.
“You can walk through the groves,” she tells me. “The path comes back around to the courtyard. Just close the little gate behind you.”
I nod, trying to remember instructions that would ordinarily be simple. Keys, lights, a path. Nothing I need to defend or prove.
She shows me the bedroom upstairs, then the linen cupboard in the back hall. Towels, blankets, and a shelf of washed clothes previous guests have left behind.
“Borrow anything you need tonight. Shops are open in the morning.”
“Thank you. I think I have everything.”
Back downstairs, I ask whether I can extend the booking if I need more time. She checks her diary and tells me the cottage is free for the next two months. I don’t have to decide tonight.
I show her the payment confirmation on my phone. She gives me the receipt and the gate code, then asks whether I would like breakfast brought over tomorrow.
“Just tomorrow, please. After that I’ll shop.”
“At nine?”
“Nine would be good.”
Before she leaves, I ask her not to give anyone my address or send visitors over without checking with me. She agrees without asking whom I mean. Her own house is across the courtyard if I need anything.
I fetch the suitcase. Its wheels rattle over the gravel, absurdly loud in the quiet. For a moment I want someone to take it from me. Then I reach the door, lift it over the step, and find that I can manage.
I leave it at the foot of the stairs and sit at the kitchen table. My phone is still in my hand. There is one practical call I can make before I lose the nerve.
Don Rafael Visconti is the nearest relative I have in Sicily, though we’ve never been particularly close. Tonight, I only need a name.
He answers on the fourth ring.
“Chiara? It’s been a while. Everything all right?”
I press my thumb against a nick in the kitchen table. “I’ve left Lorenzo. I have somewhere to stay, but I need a divorce lawyer in Palermo.”
“Hold on… What happened? Are you safe?”
His voice sharpens, and my throat tightens at the concern.
“Yes. I’m safe.”
“Where are you? I can come.”
For a moment, I want to give him the address. Let someone else arrive and decide what happens next.
“Thank you, but I don’t need you to come.” I straighten in the chair. “I’ve rented a cottage. I just need the lawyer’s number.”
He’s quiet for a moment. “You’re sure you want to be alone tonight?”
I look at my suitcase beside the stairs. I got myself here. Tomorrow, I want to make the next decision too.
“I am. I need to work out what I want without anyone stepping in for me. Please don’t call Lorenzo.”
“All right. I’ll send the contact.” He pauses. “But call me if you change your mind. You don’t have to explain everything first.”
My fingers loosen around the phone. “I’ll keep that in mind. Send my regards to your wife.”
“I will. Take care of yourself, Chiara.”
I thank him and end the call. The contact arrives a moment later. He hasn’t tried to negotiate my marriage for me, and I haven’t asked him to.
The bread is still on the counter. I cut a piece and eat it standing by the sink, then put the knife down because I am tired of doing things standing up. There are two chairs. I can use either of them.
I take the receipt upstairs with my bag and put it on the desk. A week’s rent, paid. A room I chose. It isn’t a plan for the rest of my life, but it is somewhere to spend tomorrow.
My suitcase opens beside the wardrobe. I hang up a coat and two dresses, leave the rest folded, and set my wash bag in the bathroom. Then I go downstairs to check the front door.
I close the door and lean against it. No one is waiting for another explanation. I can sleep with the lamp on if I want, and in the morning I can decide what to do first.
For now, I call Rosalia as I promised.
“I’m here. Thank you for checking on me. You can tell him I arrived safely.”
“I’m glad, signora. Try to get some rest.”
“You too. Good night, Rosalia.”
Hearing her voice helps. I stay by the door for a moment after we hang up, then carry my bag to the desk.
I take out the folder and my notebook, leaving them together on the small desk. Rosalia’s words are in my handwriting, the receipt copied from the supplier’s original. They still need to be checked. I want someone to do that without deciding the answer first.
The lawyer’s contact is waiting on my phone. I open a message and write a request for an appointment, then add that I have documents about the accusation against me and need to know whom to take them to.
For a moment, with my thumb above the screen, I want Lorenzo to be the person I’m asking.
I send it anyway.